Lucy: A Novel by Jamaica Kincaid

Sundays, and it was the same scent. As soon as we met, we spoke only to each other. Nothing we said to each other was meant to leave a lasting impression. Eventually, we were sitting on grass behind a huge hedge of wild roses, away from everybody. For a long time we said nothing, and then Hugh said, “Isn’t it the most blissful thing in the world to be away from everything you have ever known—to be so far away that you don’t even know yourself anymore and you’re not sure you ever want to come back to all the things you’re a part of?” I knew so well just what he meant, and it made me sigh and press myself against him as if he were the last thing in the world. He kissed me on my face and ears and neck and in my mouth. If I enjoyed myself beyond anything I had known so far, it must have been because such a long time had passed since I had been touched in that way by anyone; it must have been because I was so far from home. I was not in love.
    We were still lying on the grass. We had no clothes on. It had gotten quite dark, but the air was still very hot. The wild roses perfumed the air in a sickly but delicious way. I was feeling that I was made up only of good things when suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to protect myself, something Mariah had told me over and over that I must remember to do. She had taken me to her own doctor, and every time I left the house on an outing with Peggy, Mariah would remind me to make sure I used the things he had given me. My period was due in two weeks, and the thought that it might not show up made me stiffen suddenly. I felt like running, running for the two weeks; at the end of this time, either my period would show up or I would die from exhaustion. I shivered so hard that Hugh noticed and said, “What’s the matter?” and pulled me back down next to him. He buried his face in the hair under my arms; he took first one breast, then the other into his mouth as if he meant to swallow them whole. He meant to make me feel again the thing that had just happened between us, but now I was only reminded of my past, filled with confusion and dread.
    When I was around twelve years old or so, I was given three yards of cloth as a present. It was an ugly piece of cloth; it had printed on it a design of brown boxes with the word “Pandora” written across each one and a black-haired beast emerging from the open lid. With my mother’s permission, I had it made up in a dress not appropriate to wear to church but appropriate to wear to a fete: no sleeves and a sweetheart neck. One day I was putting on that dress, and while my arms were raised high above my head I saw this amazing thing—a brownish, curly patch of hair growing under each arm. I was shocked at this sign of something I thought would never happen to me, a sign that certain parts of my life could no longer be kept secret from my mother, or people in general; anyone could look at me and know things about me. I got a washrag and rubbed hard under my arms, but the hair just stayed there; it would not go away. I had known that, but I could not prevent myself from trying. I then thought that if I had hair growing in one place, perhaps I had hair growing in other places also, and I put my hands in my underpants and felt. My worst fears were true; I had hair growing there also—a patch of small, short curls, like hair on a baby’s head. Sometimes, when I would find myself in a mess that left me very disturbed, I would say to myself, I am going to wake up now, and I would wake. But this was not a dream, this was my real life. I was undergoing a change, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Not long after, I was about to take my bath in preparation for school. I had been feeling odd while going about my morning chores, and had complained to my mother about an ache in my stomach and a chill. I got undressed for my bath. I removed my underpants. My underpants were stained with a rust color, but I didn’t recognize this